rashmi-vasudeva.com

I miss my home. With every nadi. Nothing changes this yearning. Not years, not convincing myself of the joys I have found in new homes, not even the other joys that I have been blessed with. Even today, my dreams stubbornly locate themselves in that crooked house.

I miss everything about it -- its ugly front, the gates that were never closed, the cellar I never visited, the kennel that Ruby never used, the tortoise in the well, its joyful ramblingness, its needlessly long kitchen, its sweaty bathrooms and dirty toilets, the narrow winding passage from the studio to the terrace, the public phone booth, the tacky poster that declared that we only live once and if we live right once is enough, Ajji's room mirror which saw all my teenage warts, the hall divan where I always wished to sleep, just like Sudhi did, but never managed to, the dress room with its many joys and pains, Raghavendra's room with its mysteriously slippery floor (till the mystery was solved one day when I realised he spilled talcum powder every day hehe) ...sigh, I can go on as you can see. In my most weepy moments, I even miss its utter lack of privacy. Aah. That precious word privacy...when I think about it a little more deeply than usual, the tears stop.

Sometimes, when I describe the house I lived in for the first 18 years of my life to Siddharth, my wiring goes all weird; for a second (and this has happened several times), I wonder why am I taking so much trouble to describe it when I can just take him to Jain Temple street and show him! And then the thought vanishes. Of course. There is nothing to show. In its place are two apartment blocks, now not even shiny. Just ordinary.

When it was being demolished, I never summoned up courage to even attempt a peep. Now, I urge him to take 'that road' when driving back to our house from Amma's. And on that road, where the sights and sounds have changed beyond my comprehension, the smells assail me. The rushing home from school in time for the evening coffee, sitting in the 'hall' (never tony enough to be referred to as 'living room'...in its best moments, it became 'drawing room'), overcome by my shyness and yet cocooned in it, basking in that time of the day when all work is about to cease. Never liked coffee very much but its smell still makes me yearn.

Nostalgia is a funny thing. There were many fights in that house but my brain remembers none. But it remembers the evening communion television viewing and the accompanying jokes (invariably the same ones about vegetable-resembling newsreaders) vividly.

Then there was the sound of Amma's ring rubbing against my milk 'lota' as she cooled the hot Complan I drunk every day religiously.Cheeec cheec, cheec cheec. The most comforting music in the world. More music always poured out of our two-in-one, our most powerful weapon in the relentless battle we fought for space in our five feet by five feet room (at least it felt so) that expanded to store, according to my last memory, one large study table, one chair, one boiler, one stool, one small table which held a 14-inch colour tv, two wardrobes, one bed, one carrom board, many suitcases underneath the bed, one 'Rama' water filter, some assorted steel plates and tumblers, one tricycle and all our dreams and nightmares.

Yesterday I was in my home again. And like always it felt like home.

Will you look this way?
My love.
Will you look this way?

The seasons remember you.
Will you look their way?

The sky that wept yesterday,
The moon that later consoled the night,
Both asked me to say.

They long for your sight.
Will you look their way?

Mustard alight in the fields
The singing wind
The creeper sliding up the tree
The jasmine, dainty and free

They yearn for you, all of them.
Will you look their way?

Will you look this way?
My love.
Will you look this way?

Adapted from 'Piya Dekho Na' from the album Gunkali by Pakistani group Kaavish. Listen to it here.

The Jacaranda tree died long ago.
Nothing to remember it by.
Nobody thought of a plaque to mourn
the lavender leaning against the red brick.

I pass by. My eyes, they search
a cloud of dust. In furious hurry.
They lower.

February's arriving without you.
No one to widen the iris anew.
Spring's here, they say; but the Tabebuias still in gloom.
Nowadays, their yellows too take longer to bloom.

We were in a Japanese step garden up on a plateau. Me and mi hombre. (Go, find out for yourself what it means). One of those landscaped gardens that look painstakingly wild, the uneven stones carefully set next to each other in concentric circles and blooms raising their heads from everywhere. Oh the blooms and their colours -- red, white, purple, orchid, lily, cherry blossoms, pink, lavender, jacaranda and roses, bunches and  bunches of them. All around us... each flower, each bud encased in glass. We go around in wonder...holding hands, afraid to touch. And then we summon up the courage. I hold a red rose in my hand, I touch its glass encasing and pfft!! the glass, as if it was waiting for my touch, crumbles into shiny stardust, looking just like the last gasps of a Diwali sparkler. We look at each other and gurgle in joy. We walk around the garden, up and down its circular steps, touching everything we could see and feeling the sheer wonder flowing out of us at the glass more delicate than the flowers it encased. And then we reluctantly bid our enchanted goodbyes.

*******
I am sitting on a worn-out school bench besides my closest friend. It is afternoon, lazy and dark. My old and bald English lecturer is sitting in the front row and has turned towards us. I am narrating my dream about the magical garden. I tell them both about the profusion of colours and flowers; about the delicacy of the glass and its willingness to surrender. They are listening intently or perhaps looking at me askance. I couldn't much make out. It was dark, you see.

And then as suddenly as it began, it was over. I woke up beautiful. Dream within a dream. A rare morning gift from who knows who.

Song for the day:

So Sanjay Leela Bhansali believes everything he creates is larger than life because throughout his growing-up years, his mother wanted a bigger, larger, wider space to dance in but never got any. The simple thing would be to assume this is his way of giving a celluloid tribute to his mother's unquenched desire. Or you can complicate it by wondering if this is some  Freudian subterranean transfer of desires.

Whatever it may be, this entire story was just a by-the-way. What I wanted to write was about how I understand his mother's wish. In a sense that is what I wish for every day when doing my earlier 20-minutes now half-hour no-holds-barred random mash-up dance. But it is also a wish I do not want fulfilled. You do have such wishes, don't you? The ones that are only good enough to daydream about but not good enough for anything more than that.

Okay back to the wish that is not a wish. Why do I not want it fulfilled? Because there is beauty in constriction; there is poetry, however bland, in my careful attempts to avoid the speakers and not hit against the sofa while I imagine I am doing a ballet pirouette. There is freedom in the music that flows all around you because the space is so small. Another thing. It makes me close my eyes and so the world falls freely around me. And intuitively, limbs, hands, neck, face, head, torso every one of my dance buddies are in their own wide, open space.

Someday, all this will add up to something.

Why do I think so? Why am I writing all this? Because I read this today.
The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people's diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.
(Extract from Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar)

These things are my becoming.

An exhausting year is finally ending. As the girth grew, winds raged, doors rattled, love leaked and little specks of diamond dust flew up as sunlight too streamed through. And that is all the review you get 2012. I don't want to see the likes of you again! Go stand in a corner, you! And don't ever turn back.

2013, I begin you with a haiku. From the master himself. Matsuo Basho.

Year’s end, all
corners of this
floating world, swept.

When can I ever stop at one. One more for the road. From another master. Yosa Buson.

You leave;
green are the weeping willows,
long is the road.

So here's the plan for the year of the Baker's Dozen. Psst: I didn't call you Baker's Dozen for nothing. A little extra is always welcome. :)

The moon and I, we understand each other.
We show as much of me as we please.
Sometimes whole, sometimes just a sliver.
Other times, we manage to cease.

Round and pockmarked, both of us.
Our friends those distant tides.
Quiet, usually without much fuss.
We appear and then we hide.

But there's one difference main.
The moon waxes and the moon wanes.
And yet, nobody complains.
I do the same and they say am not sane.

She hurried, the red bag slipping off her aching shoulder, past the closed shops, her faithful sneakers manfully negotiating the hardened dirty snow beneath them, something they never imagined they would be doing. They slipped, skidded and grazed but nevertheless had mastered the art of balance, like their flat-footed owner. Finsbury Park. Not the most romantic suburb of London but for her, everything about the city was. She was there for one last visit before she could officially begin packing and filing her memories.

She walked on, her gait as awkward as ever and letting out theatrical sighs every now and then when her fidgety bag rudely interrupted her thoughts. She loved doing that; sighing aloud that is. Told herself this was her 'extroverted self' peeking out when no one's looking.

Staying with a friend had its disadvantages. If nothing, you had to be polite. But her Chinese classmate had been kind enough to offer a bed in expensive London and she wasn't going to be anything but as friendly as she could manage.

Climbing up the three steps to the door of her friend's house, she knocked. There was no response. Her friend was not the sort to go out without informing her. Anxious and cold, she knocked again. And again. Was she about to spend her last night in London frozen on the doorsteps of a Finsbury Park house? "God damn girl! Open the door!" Knocking soon became pounding. Fistfuls of cold desperation on an old door.

The pillow, its soft-stitched edge curling inwards, looked somewhat affronted at the sudden afternoon onslaught.

'Cold evening in Finsbury Park' had been filed under 'warm nostalgia' nearly a year ago.

In July-August 2011, I used to watch the 8.30 pm serial on Star Plus. Funny thing is, I don't even remember its name today. And to be able to watch that, one day, I switched to Star Plus 5 minutes earlier. And heard some thunder and lightning... a clear zinger of a voice narrating the story of Devaki and Kamsa. And a man strode in...his very stance radiating power, magnetism and
strength. I looked. I marvelled.

And I didn't watch. Yes really. I did not want to watch any more serials than I already was. But of course, the compulsion stayed somewhere. The next day, I switched to Star Plus 10 minutes
earlier instead of 5 minutes. It was the Janmashtami episode -- honestly, I was first arrested by Khushi's eagerness, her enthusiasm and her spunk; and then I saw that man again. This time, I saw his eyes. The brown of the best kind. Dark, melting, one moment, darker and piercing slits the next. I looked again. I marvelled again and I was hooked.

I YouTubed my way till Janmashtami.. in a haphazard way. Saw everything tumble jumble. Dhak Dhak it was. I saw it all again.. this time in chronological order. And then randomly googled for
more information on the actors playing the roles. And stumbled into India Forums. And with that,  Arnav and Khushi officially entered my bloodstream.

There is much to cherish, much to remember, much to laugh, much to cry about in this journey of 1.5 years. IPK became so much larger than life and part of life; it taught me to relook at the values and principles that mean most to me... it grabbed my hand ASR-like and showed me my inner self, my greatest passions and desires in life; it swivelled me around, ASR-like again, and made me get in touch with the kind of writing and reading I truly enjoy. It made me understand my own life and the love  of my life better and more importantly, value it and appreciate how precious it is to have somebody to chant hamesha with; have somebody to have little fights with; have somebody to passionately love; yes indeed, have somebody to rabba ve with. It showed me how ethereal connections with strangers can be; and it gifted me with the delight of reconnecting with the one friend I can tell everything to.

What was it about IPK that made us collectively mad? They looked so gorgeous on screen but it was not just that; He has the perfect widow's peak and she, gloriously radiant skin, but it was not just that; His smirk never ceased to stop the heart and her beautiful smile never failed to warm it but it was not just that; these two just lit up the screen even if they barely looked at each other but it was not just that;  they had a family madcap and lovable but it was not just that; they had a bumbling cupid of a villain but it was not just that;

It was magic because every time Arnav turned away from Khushi, every time he shouted that he hates her, every time his brown beautifuls melted looking at her, every time, we heard the yearning in his voice, every time we wished with all our heart for Arnav-Khushi Hamesha,  it all coalesced into one single truth. A truth that when spoken aloud or declared bravely makes cynics
laugh and friends chide you for your mawkishness. But that truth remains. Omnia Vincit Amor.

Love conquers all.

It was when the story threatened to deviate from this precious premise that the fans began protesting. This was the fans' victory as much as Arnav and Khushi's -- this forever that we were witness to in the last episode -- however abruptly achieved --  was how it ought to have been. It was never meant to be tampered with.

Thank you for strengthening my belief in love. IPKKND will live. When I am grey and old and have lost my teeth and hair (Arnav might not because Khushi wishes he never...but am not so sure about  myself), I will watch old episodes, I will marvel at how mad I was for a year and a half and I might  even croak out a 'What the'.

Now to some of my best memories.

These were difficult to choose.. there were so many but I disciplined myself (well, almost) to two per section. So here goes.

1. Most Romantic Scenes

Indulge me, but more than the actual Diwali episode, for me the most romantic moment is when Arnav first spots Khushi amidst the diyas and walks towards her entranced. His eyes reflect desire, a sense of pride at his choice, pure admiration and unadulterated love, all together. One of Barun's best ever scenes, I feel.

Indulge me again, the dargah scene when her pristine white dupatta caresses his face and he turns and searches for its owner, longingly. I could smell her perfume there almost, just like I know he did. For me she would smell something lemony and something of the lily of the valley..sharp but not overpowering. 

There are many others like the fairy lights untangling, the guesthouse rescue, the stars conversation after maa's kangan, the hospital benedictory pat on her head...but dammit I had to choose!

2. Most sensuous scenes

The first would have to be the gentle pressure of his brown fingers on her pretty fair feet after the sprain is taken care of and she is about to lift her feet from his thigh.

The second is after the water fight in the office. She turns towards him in anger and her wet lustrous hair hits him square on his face and his heart stops for a microsecond in spite of his anger
(mine did too). You can clearly see desire flash in his eyes in that instant.

Oh damn. I have to have a third. It has to be, has to be, 'Hogaya' after bending down in such sexy slow motion, stopping to see her reaction and prising out the bangle piece from her wrist. And looking up with his teeth still holding the piece.Whew.

And a fourth. The Haldi rub. One of the best screenplay writing instances that manages to showcase breathless intimacy and passion with the leads barely touching each other, forget kissing.

3. Most Powerful scenes

1. Surefire first. The 'I hate you' scene by the poolside. The angst, anguish and the undeniable passion  when they say I hate you, the heaviness of their hearts raw in their eyes... I am tempted to label this the best ever scene of IPK...it defines everything about the story. Nafrat paas aane na de.. mohabbat door jane na de.

2. After Arnav discovers Khushi and Shyam on the terrace.. he walks like a zombie to his room, wrenches off his coat and sits numb on the edge of his bed...his eyes bloodshot, his hands trembling but covering his face, the horror of his situation, palpable. I thought this was even more powerful than the actual breakdown scene.

3. The kidnap 'I love you'. I may be in a minority here.. but I loved the entire kidnapping track and the intensity it brought to the love story. His 'I love you' on phone, almost physically pulled out of him...his recognising that she was crying and gruffly asking her to stop doing so.... while she was barely breathing into the phone -- classic stuff.

2. Most Funny Scenes

1. 'Din bhar khelte rehte hain' to Om Prakash followed by Arnav's befuddled 'ajeeb ho tum'. I laughed my guts out. That entire episode actually.

2. The heartbeat test.. has something like this ever been attempted by any heroine? Nope. Neither in movies nor on television.

Oh well. One more. The Dadi-Mami-NK confrontation in the hilarious episode of bed breaking. Priceless.

I found the entire ASR flirting track during Payash wedding romantic, sensuous and funny. There's no contesting that 'Hi'. A simple Hi! invested with so much sensuality. So no classifications possible here. All the scenes in that track are special, very special.

If this track was the best, the best week of episodes was during Holi. The highlight being Arnav gazing enraptured at Khushi...'she's beeeeautiful". He is too.

3. IPK Quirks

1. The mysterious poolside. Where was it actually located? How was it that it could be seen from the living room and yet whenever Khushi and Arnav had their intense moments, nobody could see them? How was it that Arnav's room was reached by stairs and yet the pool belonged to his room? Did Anjali have a separate pool or she shared it with Arnav? You get the drift. The magical poolside.

2. ASR's closet or Moody's magical trunk. Err umm.. only one closet. He apparently kept everything there including his two and a half suits, one and a half fake Hermes shoes, Singhania's file (ok, ok it got lost but it was there before alright?), his will (hellow!), extra bedcovers, maa's kangan and presumably also his assorted Khushi souvenir collection -- pearls, pom-poms, torn dupatta ends and what not.  And then to top this,  Khushi also kept all her stuff there including  her mojris and chameli ka tel. And it still had space for her to sit inside and mull about Sheetal. Go, figure.

Epilogue: While revisiting some old scenes, I spotted a smaller white boxy wardrobe kinda thing on his wall where he kept err..Khushi's pearls. Which for reasons unknown disappeared in the later episodes. The boxy wardrobe, not the pearls.

3. Everything in mami's room in one episode was polka-dotted. Her nightdress, the pillow covers, heck even the curtains. And in Akash's room, the dominant colour was lurid pink. Freudian much?

4. The super-efficient invisible robot called Aman. Am I glad we never saw him! Am sure his family didn't ever either.

5. The mystery of the full plate of almonds and two pickle jars that were a constant in Nani's room.

6. The Prakash brothers. Enough said.

IPK-isms and favourite one-liners.

Oh they have got into my own lexicon.

Adding a 'wa' for everybody and everything, even though often it is only in my own mind.

Keeping track of real-life Rabba Ves.. ;)

Enough!!

Aap bhi na!

Hum ho do nandkisor!

Hullo Hi bye bye!!

Thoda dard hoga

Hogaya

Lagi Shart (the sexiest challenge ever)

Ab theek hain

Main nahi jaanta tha ki tum mujhe itney kareeb se observe karte ho.

Last mein kya tha (roll the tongue ladies!) followed by Let's start backwards (now roll the R)

Kuch Kuch hota hain Arnavji...aap nahi samjhoge. Followed by 'What Crap'.

'I'm waiting'. Followed by deadly smirk.

Tum theek ho? It always sounded like I love you to me. And it was always a question and an answer both. Sigh.

And all IPK's vintage unfinished dialogues...

Khushi, tum...

Khushi, main..

Shhhhh..

Farak padtha hain kyunki...

Of course Farak padtha hain dammit kyunki main...

Aap he aise chale jayenge toh hum saans hi...

and of course, the ultimate unfinished line

What the!

Thank Yous

Waise, thank you to the entire cast.. especially mami, Nani and Buaji... nuanced and memorable role-playing. But my special thanks to these four.

Barun Sobti. For embodying everything that I had grown up imagining about Mills and Boon Heroes and taking it beyond. Much beyond. For managing to be Darcy, Heathcliff, Rochester, Roark, Rhett all rolled into one. Not just tall, dark and handsome but also smirky, sexy, furious, witty, snarky. You played everything fantastically Barun. You played ASR with aplomb and you were adorable as Arnav. I have discussed, thrashed, analysed and observed your every frown, every lift of the eyebrow, every kind of half-smirk; every sinew in your strong forearms. And many more unmentionables here. I am a decent, mature 33-year-old good girl after all.  I have celebrated when you have laughed; I have cried when you have and I have had unshed tears when you didn't shed them. You have made it impossible for me to conjure up another face whenever I read any romantic novel now...which of course, I read again to imagine you. Thank you.

Sanaya Irani. I truly believe there couldn't have been another Khushi. It was a stroke of genius to get you to play her... you brought to life the child-woman who is as much a pillar of this story as ASR is. ASR wouldn't have been so iconic a character if you hadn't played Khushi with such sincerity and dedication. I loved your comic timing, I loved your sankapan and I 'farak' your tears. You were just the perfect foil for ASR... without you, it wouldn't have been the same. Thank you.

Raju Singh. There is never ever a love story that tugs at the heart without apt music. Arnav and Khushi wouldn't be Arshi without Rabba Ve. And there would be no Rabba Ve without your genius. Our unsung hero, I wish I could hug you for giving us Rabba Ve, for the title song that makes me want to sing it to Arnav --tujhko dekh kar aankhen muskurane lagte hain...for the rousing, triumphant ASR background tune and of course, for Daiyya Ho. How many villains can boast of a background tune that is as enticing as the hero's.  It is perhaps a rarity by itself that the background music of a serial was loved so much -- just goes to further showcase how perfect it was. Take a bow.

And finally,

The hardworking extra who doubled up as err... everything. Driver, worker in office, random walking guy near Gupta House, random guy eating noodles in Italian restaurant, random guy walking by when Khushi is out kidnapper-hunting, courier boy, random clapper for sangeet and assorted functions at RM. And Khushi's body double who did all the above AND served as a body double. And was one of the contestants in Mrs India. And was one of the mothers during Aarav's drum contest. And got bashed and envied often for just doing her job. So thank you!

Catharsis over. Done. If anybody who reads this is wondering where you can catch all the scenes I mention, you can go to Ismailvegamze's YouTube channel here: http://www.youtube.com/user/ismailvegamze, or here: http://www.youtube.com/user/DIsmailvegamze, or here: http://www.youtube.com/user/DLoveScenes
Thank you to Ismailvegamze too. What would we, the hopelessly addicted, have done without you!

Here's just a sample. My all-time favourite scene.

He still has his talent, though: that simple, amused belief in his own right to be on stage, the ability to signal flamboyance with the arch of an eyebrow. And while he seems to have been mucking about with his once-glorious face—in recent photographs he looks like he’s wearing a Rupert Everett mask, made of cheese—he still has that dragonish glare pinned above a girlish mouth, hovering between pout and tremble. Hare has Wilde describe himself, post-Reading gaol, as resembling “a pederast Anglican bishop after a night in a distillery”. Time for Everett to slip on his mitre.

From a piece in The Intelligent Life on Rupert Everett all set to play Wilde in a new play. Read the whole article here: http://moreintelligentlife.com/content/arts/everett-warms-wilde